Imagine Me (Shatter Me #6) - Tahereh Mafi Page 0,31

arms around my waist and jumps.

Up.

A bullet whizzes past my calf. I feel the burn as it grazes skin, but the night sky is cool and bracing, and I allow myself to take a steadying breath, to close my eyes for a full and complete second. Up here, the screams are muted, the blood could be water, the screams could be laughter.

The dream lasts for only a moment.

Our feet touch the ground again and my ears refill with the sounds of war. I squeeze Nazeera’s hand by way of thanks, and we split up. I charge toward a group of men and women I only vaguely recognize—people from the Sanctuary—and throw myself into the bloodshed, urging one of the injured fighters to pull back and take shelter. I’m soon lost in the motions of battle, defending and attacking, guns firing. Guttural moaning. I don’t even think to look up until I feel the ground shake beneath my feet.

Castle.

His arms are pointed upward, toward a nearby building. The structure begins to shake violently, nails flying, windows shuddering. A cluster of supreme guards reaches for their guns but stop short at the sound of Anderson’s voice. I can’t hear what he says, but he seems to be nearly himself again, and his command appears to be shocking enough to inspire a moment of hesitation in his soldiers. For no reason I can fathom, the guards I’d been fighting suddenly slink away.

Too late.

The roof of the nearby building collapses with a scream, and with a final, violent shove, Castle tears off a wall. With one arm he shoves aside the few of our teammates standing in harm’s way, and with the other he drops the ton of wall to the ground, where it lands with an explosive crash. Glass flies everywhere, wooden beams groaning as they buckle and break. A few supreme soldiers escape, diving for cover, but at least three of them get caught under the rubble. We all brace for a retaliatory attack—

But Anderson holds up a single arm.

His soldiers go instantly still, weapons going slack in their hands. Almost in unison, they stand at attention.

Waiting.

I glance at Castle for a directive, but he’s got eyes on Anderson just like the rest of us. Everyone seems paralyzed by a delirious hope that this war might be over. I watch Castle turn and lock eyes with Nouria, who’s still cradling Sam to her chest. A moment later, Castle raises his arm. A temporary standstill.

I don’t trust it.

Silence coats the night as Anderson staggers forward, his lips a violent, liquid red, his hand casually holding a handkerchief to his neck. We’d heard about this, of course—about his ability to heal himself—but seeing it actually happen in real time is something else altogether. It’s wild.

When he speaks, his voice shatters the quiet. Breaks the spell. “Enough,” he says. “Where is my son?”

Murmurs move through the crowd of bloodied fighters, a red sea slowly parting at his approach. It’s not long before Warner appears, striding forward in the silence, his face spattered in red. A machine gun is locked in his right hand.

He looks up at his father. He says nothing.

“What did you do with her?” Anderson says softly, and spits blood on the ground. He wipes his lips with the same cloth he’s using to contain the open wound on his neck. The whole scene is disgusting.

Warner continues to say nothing.

I don’t think any of us know where he hid her. J seems to have disappeared, I realize.

Seconds pass in a silence so intense we all begin to worry about the fate of our standstill. I see a few of the supreme soldiers lift their guns in Warner’s direction, and not a second later a single lightning bolt fractures the sky above us.

Brendan.

I glance at him, then at Castle, but Anderson once again lifts his arm to stall his soldiers. Once again, they stand down.

“I will only ask you one more time,” Anderson says to his son, his voice trembling as it grows louder. “What did you do with her?”

Still, Warner stares impassively.

He’s spattered in unknown blood, holding a machine gun like it might be a briefcase, and staring at his father like he might be staring at the ceiling. Anderson can’t control his temper the way Warner can—and it’s obvious to everyone that this is a battle of wills he’s going to lose.

Anderson already looks half out of his mind.

His hair is matted and sticking up in places. Blood is congealing on his